Powers laughs and points his fork at me. “That’s exactly what I keep telling him!”
Just like that, we’re talking hockey—real hockey, coach to player. And it hits me that Forest was right. Powers doesn’t care if I’m awkward or weird. He cares if I can stop pucks.
For the next hour, we talk goalies and shooters, systems and strategies. I manage not to say anything about cereal versus soup, or how hockey pads are really just marshmallow armor. I even make Coach Powers laugh a few times on purpose.
“So let’s talk about you for a sec,” Coach says eventually, and my stomach drops.
“Me,” I grunt. “We’ve already been over my stats. What else is there to say?”
He gives me a friendly grin. “Not your stats. You. We need a strategy to even out your performance for the rest of the season. Where do we start?”
Le sigh. “It’s not a matter of discipline. Or will,” I say slowly.
He shakes his head. “I never thought it was. In a young goalie like you, there are two other critical factors—experience and belief in yourself.”
“Experience we can fix,” I mutter under my breath.
He grins again. “Certainly. And there’s a reason why goalies are often the oldest players on the ice. It takes time to internalize the game at its most elite level. Every shot adds data to your supercomputer.”
I nod along, because it’s true. “Every time you level up, there’s work to do.”
“Right, and you’ve already shown us that you’re capable of that. You just need to do it more consistently. Which brings us to our second potential issue—belief in your own success. That can be harder. You have to be able to visualize the game.”
“I can do that,” I insist. “My last goalie coach was great at teaching this, and now I visualize the shot like a champ.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says. “But you have to visualize yourself, not just the puck. You have to see yourself becoming a seamless part of the game play. And that means being a seamless part of the team.”
Oof. Well good luck with that.
My face must tell a story, because he leans forward. “Beck, I have to ask—is there something going on in the Ice Cats locker room that I should know? Some reason you don’t feel a part of the team?”
I play that question back a couple of times, trying to grasp whatever he’s alluding to. Coach Tanner is great. Everybody knows that. And the locker room is fine, I guess, if you like bad jokes and loud music. That can’t be what Coach is asking me.
And then it clicks. “Are you asking if I’m an outcast because I like both hockey and dick?”
Goddamn it. I need to stop blurting shit, because now he’s laughing. “Maybe. But I might have put it differently.”
“No. Yeah,” I say quickly. “That’s not the issue. The locker room is fine.” Except for that one thing Rigsy said… But no. “I’m the problem. I’m a weirdo.”
He shakes his head, still grinning. “But all goalies are weirdos. I should know. I live with one.”
“Really?” That’s news to me. I flip through my mental Wikipedia entry for Coach Powers and come up empty. I didn’t know he had a wife, although the size of this house sort of suggests that he might.
“Yeah, in fact…” He swivels his head toward the sound of a door closing somewhere nearby. “We’re in the kitchen! Want a plate? I cooked.”
Nobody answers for a few beats, and then I get the shock of my life as Jethro Hale, the winningest goalie in hockey history, strides into the room in athletic shorts and a threadbare T-shirt. He’s red-faced and drenched in sweat. “Hey,” he says, his voice breathy.
“Hey, yourself.” Coach gives him a fond smile. “This is Becker James, puck eater for the Ice Cats. You may have met him before at one of our preseason clinics.”
The legend spares me a glance that registers only a glimmer of familiarity. “Nice to see you again. Oh—cookies!” His attention turns to the counter and the box I brought. He opens it and makes a noise of approval.
“Don’t you want lunch?” Coach asks.
“Sure I do,” he says. “This cookie is my shower snack. Nuts have protein, right?” He grabs a pistachio cookie and winks at Coach Powers. “Back in fifteen. Save me a plate.” He ruffles Coach’s hair and then strides out of the room.
Then he’s gone, and I realize I haven’t taken a breath in, like, a full minute. So I gulp some air. I’m also staring at Clay Powers with amazement. “He’s your…”
Nope. I can’t even say it aloud in case I’m way off base.
